The Perfect Holiday, Out of Focus

A photograph of a photograph of strangers, blurry features, you can make out the blue sky, sand underfoot, human-shaped shapes, clothes white and blue, but little else.

You imagine a plane in the bright blue sky, a blurry plane full of blurry people, going to some unknown destination, coming or going, this way or that way. Vapour trails are blurry, hazy anyway, so here they remain the same, streaks of fluffy white crisscrossing the sky like words on a chalk board, spelling nothing, spelling journeys in abstract sentences, an in-flight meal, movie, and a complimentary mint.

An in-flight sense of adventure.

And on this plane sit strangers dressed in white and blue, sunglasses tucked neatly under necklines in anticipation, an admission of excitement. This, and the bottles of suncream stowed down beneath the seats, the three swimming costume choices, the flip-flops and the disposable cameras.

You imagine the sun bursting in the sky, providing enough light so no one ever needs to use the cheap plastic flash, bringing everything into focus with light and then obliterating it all with light too. And the sun bursting in the sky, lighting up the beach on which the strangers lie.

Their perfect holiday. Hair frizzed, salt-water taste on their lips, ice drinks in tall glasses, ice creams three times a day.

And the photograph, discarded in a taxi car, picked up by the taxi driver, put on a shelf with intentions to return it, and another photograph, inadvertently capturing the first for a second time.

The perfect holiday, out of focus.